I have written before about the spectacular McRenaissance of one Mr Matthew McConaughey, emerging from the romcom ruins with a breathtaking string of performances that will forever cement his place among the ranks of Hollywood greats (I always knew this was the case, Mr McC, but I’m still thrilled). It all started with The Lincoln Lawyer, then Bernie, then Killer Joe, then The Paperboy, Mud- you can scroll his IMDb page for the rest of his contemporary wonders, and rest assured he is bringing nothing short of his finest work to the biopic Dallas Buyers Club. McConaughey plays Ron Woodroof, a hard living electrician who learns he has contracted the HIV virus. In his 1985 Texas world of bull riders and macho scumbags, Woodroof’s diagnosis is both a death sentence and a scarlet letter alienating him from his social circles, dooming him to embittered loneliness. But Woodroof is a fighter, a hustler who won’t even let the long odds of a 30 day life expectancy prevent him from making his own luck. An encounter with another face of the HIV epidemic, Rayon (played by a brilliant and breezy Jared Leto), combined with his own wherewithal gives Woodroof both the direction and the motivation to fight back. Sure, Woodroof is mostly out to make money and stave off his own death for as long as possible, flipping the FDA and Big Medicine the bird along the way, but what unfurls is a matter of fact and poignantly gripping story. No one can do the quietly fierce, delicate yet strong high wire act like Jennifer Garner, who is amazing as Eve, one of Woodroof’s few friends outside of his “activist” circle. Dallas Buyers Club is a glimpse into an epochal moment in our country through the keyhole of one man’s refusal to lie down, and Jean-Marc Vallée’s superb film is a sure fire classic.

Some documentarians are concerned with style and content in equal measure. Dogtown and Z-Boys and Style Wars, pour example, have style for days, but this is appropriate because the subject matter demands it. Would Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesus be as mesmerizing if all of its fascinating characters were simply interviewed and tracked with a shoddy camera? My guess is probably not, but on the other hand there are excellent documentaries that don’t seem preoccupied with such frivolities (American Movie is a prime example of such magic). These “basic” types of documentaries can be disarming, because you don’t always expect such depth to emerge from the wreckage, but occasionally one sneaks out of nowhere (or, in this case, pops up on the Netflix reco page) and leaves you with that embattled sense of awe. I say embattled because documentaries like this (see definition at: good) always fill me with a tangled collection of wonder, joy and sadness, a sense that this world and the people in it are infinitely odd, infinitely flawed, and infinitely wonderful. Zachary Levy’s Strongman is a fragile, ramshackle, tragically sincere glimpse into the small world of a man with titanic abilities, abilities that are unfortunately hard to make dazzling, dynamic or marketable. That doesn’t make them any less astounding, but it frames the plight of the documentary’s focus, strongman Stanley Pleskun (who goes by Stanless Steel), as he struggles to translate his unique skill set into a lucrative career. Pleskun himself works by day doing industrial tear outs and scrounging scrap metal from warehouses, but his determination to find an outlet for his strength drives him to perform at every turn, sometimes for no one else but a porch full of intoxicated good old boys. Levy doesn’t belabor Pleskun’s promethean struggle to break big too much, opting instead to stitch together scenes of chaotic familial dynamics, struggling romance and deep sadness into a kind of liquid, free flowing narration that paints an impression rather than hammer home a biographer’s thesis. This film is the stronger for it, and this is not to say that there is not humor to be found. This is also not to say Levy depicts Pleskun as a hulking brute out of time with no use. Through Levy’s lens, we understand the difficulties someone with such singular abilities faces when trying to market his talents, we glimpse the unlikely loveliness of a quirky romance (Stanley and Barbara are a couple for the ages) and the inevitable sadness of a relationship as it self-destructs, we experience the emotive bond (for better or worse) of a close but dysfunctional family. And despite all that, we even feel warming rays of hope at the end of the film as things begin to come full circle for Stanley and Barbara. Of course, if you’re a real Grinch, you could also see it as the doom laden reset point for a cycle of tragedy and heartbreak. But I try not to be such a Grinch…

Much like Stanless Steel, Levy’s documentary won’t win any awards for slick, pretty packaging, but the power still finds a way to strike you in the most unlikely places.

Don’t worry. I’m not going to get all Neil deGrasse Tyson and snarkily pick apart the minor details of such a tremendous film, mostly because I think it’s a really Grinchy thing to do, but more importantly, I don’t really care enough about factual minutiae like adult diapers and east to west/west to east debris fields. How did Dr T feel about the reality of Deep Impact, I wonder? There is a huge difference between taking issue with plot holes or inconsistencies that manifest as a result of poor writing versus dissecting so called factual details simply to take the art down a peg or two. The point here is that all films have elements of the unreal, elements that don’t exactly add up, because they are movies! What’s important is that the experience feels real, and Gravity accomplishes this in fine fashion. Emmanuel Lubezki is one of the great contemporary cinematographers (from the life-sapped dystopian gloom of Children of Men to the spectral mystery of Tree of Life), and as we float and fling and careen through the vastness of space, it is ever the immaculate blues and greens and whites of earth that compel us to hold on. The sound design and score were superb, evoking the wispy, nebulous beauty of Brian Eno’s For All Mankind score at times and 2001 at others (especially the terrifyingly muted, chaotic scenes of destruction as space ships and stations are ravaged). And what an aural treat (as well as a sensational call back to another space classic, Apollo 13) it was to hear Ed Harris as Houston mission control. While all of these elements coalesce spectacularly to envelope the audience in a cloak of adventure, fear, wonder and sheer awe, it is the expertly understated work of Sandra Bullock and George Clooney that tether us to something worth saving. So much of this film is jaw droppingly astonishing that it makes their matter of fact portrayals a perfect counterpoint to balance the abundant visual marvels. Cuarón’s camera work is inspired, navigating his audience through peril and splendor in equal measure, and perhaps for the first time I experienced 3D that actually worked to make the film more immersive rather than dilute its effectiveness. When Dr Stone becomes untethered and begins her terrifying tumble into space, I was right there, my heart racing, my stomach in knots. It was a brilliant experience to be so completely whisked away, much like how I felt watching Jurassic Park or Where the Wild Things Are for the first time, and isn’t that what makes the movies so very wonderful? To be transported, intellectually, emotionally, even physically, to worlds of which we never could have dreamed, it’s the closest thing to real magic we can experience.

The Coen brothers have never shied away from tackling profundity in a way inimitably Coen. And with Inside Llewyn Davis, the Coens show they still have a lot to say about their legacy as filmmakers and storytellers. Through a kind of bleakly whimsical mobius trip, the story of a struggling folk singer attempting to connect with the world is hilarious at one moment, devastating the next, and mesmerizing throughout. Perpetually aloof, dour, morose, Davis has the chops (and even the life experience Dylan pretended to have) to create wonderful art, but somehow cannot connect with his contemporaries. As he floats from couch to couch, inconveniencing acquaintances to varying degrees, Davis seems lost in the dismal doldrums of creativity. The clouds part when Davis plays, however, and the superb Oscar Isaac manages to coax the whole world into leaning close as he culls the voices and struggles of lives past into existence in darkened bars and stuffy rooms. It’s a classic and excellently effective Coen tactic, but what spectacularly moving scene in a Coen movie would be complete without a wry reminder at the end that we shouldn’t take ourselves too seriously (lest we start getting carried away with all this heady pondering)? A prime example: F Murray Abraham’s deadpan delivery of “I don’t see a lot of money, here” is a laugh out loud moment that cuts off a revelatory musical sequence. The musical sequences are truly beautiful, moving scenes that sum up much of Davis’ embattled personae, and serve as kind of thesis for what the Coens have so long been fascinated with: the creation of art in relation to tradition, the process of creating new via the old. This tension between tradition and innovation is evidenced in their strongest works, and Inside Lleweyn Davis is a strong addition to a shockingly formidable body of work.

I’m going to have to plead ignorance when it comes to William Shakespeare’s tragedy, having sacrificed experiencing it in school so that Hamlet and Macbeth could be dissected one more time. I’m sorry I have, because even going on the fragments that John Logan was able to contract into a pretty tense narrative, Coriolanus is a bruiser (T.S. Eliot once declared Coriolanus superior to such tragedies as Hamlet or Macbeth). There are a few elements of the general plot that don’t seem to work when modernized (Coriolanus getting banished by, essentially, a mob. A late and surprising plot twist that had me scratching my head), but I can forgive such trivialities in light of true venomous acting (thank you Ralph, Ms. Redgrave, and G Butler). Ralph Fiennes, putting on his director hat as well as his leading actor hat, opts for the uber-gritty and perhaps too frenetic camerawork in an attempt to give us a war ravaged Rome and the battle between social classes. Directing wise, it may have missed the mark a bit for me, but Fiennes and Gerard Butler kick some serious ass as blood enemies turned unconventional comrades. The film belongs to Vanessa Redgrave (the frightening mother of the exiled warrior) though, and she squeezes every ounce of blood out of her stony personae to chill your blood. Bravo all around, though I suspect that there was more to the original play that helped to flesh out various character arcs, plot points and the like, but Logan almost pulled it off.

Whilst my film snob friends were bashing this movie before it hatched, I was tentatively defending the potential of the Tatum/Hill buddy cop television series reboot spinoff comedy. Little brother DC and I caught a show when I went to visit him the other day, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t enjoy the hell out of 21 Jump Street’s silly ass. Jonah Hill and Channing Tatum are a stellar duo, rocking genuine friend chemistry and enough comedic timing to make my sides hurt at times. The movie does lag, but the high points, the humor and the cameos more than make up for it. Tatum and Hill, both working to break their showbiz stereotypes, seem to be succeeding on an empirical level, but DC and I have always thought of Tatum as an actor of subtle, understated sincerity. Hell, Tatum’s slightly unhinged genius was the only good thing to say about the filmic floater that was The Dilemma. Hill is always solidly funny, and Jump Street finds him in the writer’s chair also this time around. Jump Street is just the thing we need to liven up the gray doldrums of Detroit sprinter (The shitty, sleety cold/warm sunless period where it’s supposed to be spring, but we’re still wearing our winter coats). And it’s the kind of film that has too much fun, even as it’s saying Fuck you, art film!

Zack Snyder has been the Wizard of Hollywood since his muscled up action flick slash comic adaptation 300 knocked everyone’s socks off (somehow everyone seemed to forget that Robert Rodriguez did it better with Sin City) in 2006. I wasn’t sold, and after his inflated mess that was Watchmen, I knew the jig was up for Mr. S. The rest of the world seemed ready for more, but Snyder’s newest crapfest, aptly titled Sucker Punch, is exactly that: a cheap shot disguised as an actual film. Now that Snyder has attempted to stand on his own, shallow feet, it brings into sharp focus the fact that not only does Snyder not get some of the material he has adapted in the past, but he isn’t particularly mature when it comes to how he views men and women. Aside from Sucker Punch playing out like a frenetic commercial for five different video games mashed into one barely cohesive story (I’m using the word cohesive loosely, by the way), the segments that actually involve dialogue (again, I’m using the word dialogue as loosely as I just used the word cohesive) are reduced to not much more than a series of fetish sequences for geeks to slobber over. For shame, Mr. S. I hope that this film is your Toto, pulling down the curtain of smoke and mirrors you have conjured to trick people into thinking you are a visionary when you are nothing more than a modern Russ Meyer with gluttonous budgets at your disposal. When you cough up cash to see this crap, take a look around at your co-audience and see who’s lining up to take in Snyder’s genius. Maybe then you’ll see what I mean (hint, hint, I’m insinuating that you, the audience are the actual suckers. Get it?)

Note: Perhaps I am reading waaay too much into this, and perhaps I am giving Snyder too much credit, the way I feel that I do for Harmony Korine (Kids, Trash Humpers). But perhaps the true sucker punch of the film is the film itself, and Snyder is back in his castle, laughing at how stupid we can be to throng to films like this. Somehow, I fear that is wishful thinking, and probably truer to reality is that Snyder actually thought he was making an important film. A shame, that.

Quentin Dupieux is an audiophile at heart (he crafts techno music as Mr. Oizo) and it shows in his lampooning of Hollywood, horror, and film in general, the wonderfully low key and entertaining Rubber. And anyone who has watched this film (regardless of how much you loved or hated it) cannot argue with the fact that both the soundtrack and the sound design are spectacular, from the wonderfully retro beats that reminded me a bit of Electroma, to the fantastic rumble of Robert as he telepathically wreaks havoc. Oh, maybe I should back up- Rubber tells the story of Robert, an abandoned tire (that’s right, you read that correctly) that awakens in the desert to find that he has telepathic powers. His journey of discovery and mayhem is viewed from afar by a group of captive moviegoers who are made to watch through binoculars and camp out in the desert in order to find out what happens next. Perhaps I have said too much, but please don’t let this scattershot synopsis deter those of you who haven’t watched this charming little piece of trashy film fun. I had the pleasure (or misfortune) of watching this film in an empty auditorium at my local hipster haunt slash “art” theatre (which is garnering many points from me as they are finally going to screen Bellflower), and it was a blast. And come on, anything with Wings Hauser automatically moves up the quality ladder by virtue of his presence. The film begins in a theatre of the absurd kind of way, and ends with a killer’s gaze fixed quite literally on Hollywood, and in between is a minimalist plot helped by fine acting and wonderful cinematography (mad props, QD). Rubber is one of my new campy favorites.

The story of one of music’s brightest stars, Joy Division, is as blistering in its brevity as it is in its honesty. Sam Riley is amazing as Ian, lead singer of the band who came to be synonymous with all that is amazing in post punk, and in music in general. Riley doesn’t concern himself with strict character impersonations, which makes his performance all the more powerful, but when he is on stage during the concert sequences it’s uncanny. Corbijn is a music director at heart, and his film beats with a pulse all its own. Shot in black and white, Corbijn captures bleakness and isolation amid the English countryside. Another one that should be on any music lover’s must see list, Control is a glimpse beneath the surface of one of rock’s most enigmatic and powerful forces.

Critics everywhere seem to be totally enamored with Christopher Nolan’s newest mind job, Inception, and this guy is no exception. That’s right; I’m not ashamed to admit that I, just like every other pseudo film lover and legit, non-cynical cinephile on this fair earth, have imbibed in the tantalizing nectar of Nolan’s sinister whimsy. For the third time in a row, Nolan has said eff you to opening credits, instead washing his audience up on shore with Leo like in the trailer for Danny Boyle's The Beach (kudos). From then on the story only gets crazier, and the amazing cast reads like a dream roster for any aspiring filmmaker: The one and only Leo, the always amazing Joseph Gordon Levitt, a razorish Ellen Page, a velvety and badass Tom Hardy and a wonderfully earnest Cilian Murphy. Then, on top of that, a truly stellar supporting cast, including a tragically underused Lukas Haas and Michael Caine, a remarkable Tom Berenger and Peter Postelwaithe, and a role for Marion Cotillard so juicy can practically see it oozing from the corners of her mouth. Plenty of other critics and sum uppers have given the elusive synopsis a go, and I am not going to contribute. But one thing must be made clear, one thing that all those critics touting the heart and depth of the film seem to have glossed over: for all its surrealism and trippiness, Inception is a film about a bunch of con artists attempting a glorious coup at the behest of a sheister energy mogul. Just keep that in the old noggin as you tear up over father son reconciliations and root for a pack of uber grifters. Hell, it sure didn’t stop me. Nolan’s weightless action sequence is guaranteed to blow minds, as is the massively textured plot. Now, I’m not some crazed fanboy: the film did have its moments of clumsy writing, but it’s a necessary evil. And the film did not patronize its audience like so many of its predecessors and contemporaries. As far as blockbusters, and films in general, are concerned, it’s a much needed breath of fresh air. What would your totem be?

I have always liked to think of Joker as timeless, without a past or a history, as simply awakening or materializing in the shadows after Bruce Wayne put on the cowl one night. Well, Joker has a history in Christopher Nolan’s newest Batman film, The Dark Knight, he has a past, and it’s whatever works for his audience. Like telling a joke, Joker uses fear and violence as a punch line, a gag to be laughed at and a spectacle to be ogled. This time around, Bruce has more villains, more problems. Battling gang wars on one front and fellow vigilantes who heard his call on the other, Batman, it seems, has only made the problem worse. Like Gordon said at the end of Batman Begins, it’s escalation. Bullets are met with Kevlar, which is then met with armor piercing rounds, and the same goes for a not totally sane citizen vigilante who dresses up as a bat and fights crime at night. Now, is Joker crazy? I think not. Malicious, yes, violent, yes, ruthless, yes, but he maintains a complete awareness about his identity and his role in Gotham City, while Batman is doomed to toil under the self-designed premise that he will perform his duty until he is no longer needed. But who decides when he isn’t needed anymore? He does. And when you are as clearly obsessed as Wayne is, that day will never come. Nolan’s film plays out less like an action film (though it has that in spades) and more like an essay on the comic book hero himself, an essay in which his enemies are like dark reflections of himself, all just as crazed and adamant about their point of view. Aaron Eckhart is admirable as District Attorney Harvey Dent, who becomes Two Face far too late in the game, and Bale, Caine and Oldman are reliably excellent. It is the late Heath Ledger who steals the show in a force of chaos performance wrought from the darkest places of mankind’s inner workings. Ledger’s Joker is the best portrayal you will find, either in print or on film (sorry, Mr. Nicholson, I still loved your Joker), the brutal fixation on destruction and Batman is as frightening as ever. As he says to Dent, “I’m like a dog chasing a tire. I wouldn’t know what to do with it if I got one.” Steeped in the metaphysical realm of Batman’s ultimate moral judgment like Batman Begins was steeped in the Frank Miller frenzy of Batman’s origins, The Dark Knight poses questions and leaves its audience to find the answers. Is the film long, yes? But is it worth it? Yes. What might have been if Mr. L hadn’t passed away…

Fans of film have long known that Nicolas Winding Refn has enormous talent as a director. In fact, Refn’s downfall more often than not tends to revolve around his storytelling. His gangster film Pusher was a great debut, and though Fear X bankrupted his film company, it was another promising addition to his resume. Refn got stuck in a rut with Pusher II and III, but his films have grown stronger as his plots have quietly become more and more minimal. Bronson was not much more than a series of scenes hung on a larger than life persona, and in many ways it worked. Valhalla Rising hardly had any plot, and with Drive, Refn has hit his stride in a hypnotically wonderful way. Like Monte Hellman and Walter Hill before him, Refn derives his main character’s name from his essence, and Ryan Gosling is perfect as Driver, the quiet, isolated stunt driver who moonlights as a getaway wheel man in LA. His life finds a direction of sorts when he befriends the lovely Irene (Carey Mulligan is brilliant) and her son. As with all things film, the wrench in the works comes in the form of Irene’s fuck up husband, loosed from the joint indebted to a group of scumbags who want their pound of flesh. It is noteworthy that Drive is first time Refn hasn’t penned the film he directed, the pared down story in this case written by tepid talent Hossein Amini (who has done nothing remarkable). In fact, this script alone isn’t particularly good, but the actors and directing make it phenomenal. The soundtrack is as gorgeous as the cinematography, and whoever the hell’s idea it was to give the film semi sleazy, 80s style, hot pink title credits imposed over a stunning LA nighttime skyline was a friggin genius! Drive is a total package of taught, stripped down filmic storytelling disguised as a genre film, and like the (dare I say it) Two-Lane Blacktops of the world, the film becomes almost mythic in its visceral, cosmic universality. If this film were to be made 25 years ago, Driver would have most definitely been played by Charles Bronson, and Ryan Gosling lives up to that kind of comparison. Believe the hype, people, and strap into the nearest theatre seat for this gem, because it needs to be seen on the big screen. Note: Ku effing dos to Albert Brooks, who makes me feel all kinds of uncomfortable as ex-producer and general source of fear Bernie Rose. You were scarier than Ron Perlman, Mr. Brooks, and that’s a tremendous feat in itself!

Beginning with a subtitled (and Yiddish) prologue about a demon and ending with-well, I won’t give that away, but what I will give up is the conceit that Joel and Ethan Coen have spun yet another remarkable classic from the fabric of faith, desperation and suffering that we call life. Larry Gopnick is a physics professor with a typical family: marriage on the rocks, two slackerish, semi-hostile children and a neighbor who wants to build a tool shed too close to the property line. Yet it just seems to get worse and worse for Larry, and I won’t beat you over the head with the Old Testament parallels and metaphors, but in the Coen tradition, trouble always begets more trouble. Michael Stuhlbarg is astounding as Larry, a man who gets more than his share of bad luck, and Sari Lennick is seriously amazing as Judith, Larry’s serious wife who wants a divorce. The Coens wear you down right alongside Larry in this darkly hilarious two hour head lock of a film, and when it’s over, you are left just as rattled. Carter Burwell’s killer soundtrack works more like another part of dialogue, and Roger Deakins never ceases to amaze with his cinematographic genius. Like another mesmerizing classic, the much overlooked and underappreciated Barton Fink, the Coens explain little and leave you to come to your own conclusions. So, let’s just ask it, already: Why?

Special note: Hats off to sound designer dynamo Craig Berkey and foley artist titan Marko A. Costanzo, the talents responsible for creating such an intricately hypnotic aural web. The end of record sequence, the soul sucking sound of Arthur's cyst pump, and the mesmerizing isolation of specific sounds throughout the film only work to strengthen the film in ways that could not have been imagined by the Coens themselves. Another example of the whole exceeding the sum of its aggregate parts, A Serious Man is a serious achievement, to be sure.

Many critics lamented this doc’s absence from the greats of 2011, and they were absolutely right. Steve James (remember Hoop Dreams?) has crafted an amazingly heart breaking, yet somehow hopeful documentary about life amid the violence of inner city Chicago. The Interrupters focuses on a group called Ceasefire, consisting of ex-gangbangers and criminals who seek to minimize violence (mainly gang related) by interceding before the altercation escalates. The interesting perspective held by members of the group is that violence is an actual disease, a modern plague that must be treated as such. The members of Ceasefire act as antibiotics or vaccines, interrupting the disease’s mutation before it becomes communicable. The members James chooses to highlight are astonishing examples of redemption and stalwart belief in the effects of such a daunting endeavor. These heroes all have demons, very real demons that cling to the coattails of the entire film, but James doesn’t try to vilify or exonerate, opting instead to simply shine a light on a very small, yet very significant effort to make things better. It’s a heavy brew, but well worth the time.

From the opening sequences of a riot ravaged Los Angeles to the final moments of youthful exuberance, David LaChappelle’s epic doc beckons all of us to dig deep and find that spirit of hope that refuses to die, ever. RIZE is powerful in the way a spiritual or revelatory experience is powerful, which makes comparing it to other films a difficult task. LaChappelle is at true artist whose strengths rest in visual storytelling (see his canon of photography for fine examples), and his music videos belie an energetic spirit that reflect his photos. His first foray into the world of krump was during the filming of a Christina Aguilera video. A dancer invited LaChappelle to check out the local dance scene in South Central, and from then on he knew that he wanted to tell the story of this style of dance, its origins and its key players. Enter Tommy the Clown, founder of The Tommy Academy and superfly Myagi to a throng of hip hop Danny Russos who utilize the medium to express their frustrations, rage and joy. From its beginnings, a rift developed that seemed to separate two diverging factions concerning the dance style. Enter Lil C, Dragon, Miss Prissy and Tight Eyez, and it is a crime that these names are not currently synonymous with everything that is pure and wonderful about dance. Good for Lil C for making it as a judge on So You Think You can Dance? (the only reason I watch that show, or even give it any credibility), but what about the rest, Hollywood? Bull, that’s what I say. Tight Eyez summed it up when he said the world was waiting for a new youth, a new group of young ambassadors with morals who could be role models. It’s all right there for you; good values, hood edge and raw talent. That’s the most cynical of stances, I understand, and I would hate for it to come to that, but I am illustrating that even by the most vacuous and money grubbing of viewpoints, these kids are like gold. WTF? They should be in everything. I am officially inviting slash begging all of you (the aforementioned as well as Swoop, Baby Tight Eyez, Larry, Termite, all y’all) to my next birthday party. And by the way, you will always be on my Academy Award short list for best Documentary, no matter what the year. If you want to read another rant about this absolute must see doc, peep my earlier review. Ugh, BC. Doubling up again? Yes, dammit! Because some things are worth repeating. Like when your dad finished yelling at you about something, then left the room to grab a beer, and when he came back it was like, “And another thing…,” and you knew you were going to get lectured for at least another 20 minutes.